


Da'reth Shiral

by ThroughFlamesAndFrost



Series: Halam'shivanas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Cullen Rutherford, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Drama & Romance, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Enasalin is a sarcastic little shit, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mages and Templars, Mild canon divergence, Slow Romance, Tragic Romance, questioning faith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughFlamesAndFrost/pseuds/ThroughFlamesAndFrost
Summary: She has trekked to Ferelden from Clan Lavellan's camp in the Free Marches. Made her way through Kirkwall, gaining passage across the Waking Sea aboard a ship of mercenaries. Sent to spy on the Conclave as her Keeper claims the Creators have set her on this path, Enasalin Lavellan wakes, shackled in the dungeons of a Chantry. Her hand aflame with strange magic, and shemlens all around telling her she is their last hope for salvation.She must learn to work alongside those she has avoided all her life, and despite her best efforts to tamp it down, Enasalin must learn what it is to love. The Commander of the Inquisition's forces is not what she had been told Templars were like, but can their fragile starts of love survive rifts, demons, and an ancient Magister hell bent on entering the Fade?





	1. Chapter 1

            Birds chirped their evening songs, and the halla grazed contentedly beside the aravels. Enasalin watched them, leaning upon her staff and resting her chin atop her hands. Little Malloran sat with the youngest of the halla, feeding the fawn leaves of elfroot. The sounds of the Dalish camp preparing for the evening meal caused her ears to twitch back toward camp, though she paid it little mind. This life was simple, yet pure in a way most of the People never got to experience. The idea of an Alienage, of a life of servitude…Even when she was younger, not much older than Malloran, the thought of willingly choosing to remain at the sides of shemlen, to live in their cities and follow the Burned Woman was something she could not try to comprehend.

            The forest, though it presented its own dangers, gave them the chance to freely practice the Old Ways. To learn their own lore, and pass it from Keeper to First. For new generations of the People to earn their Vallaslin and live a life worthy of their chosen God whether or not the Mana surged through their veins, without the fear of the Chantry and the Templars.

            Templars. Enasalin’s lips tugged into a frown as she thought of the men and women in gleaming armor emblazoned with swords. Cruelty was their bread and butter, hunting down apostates and either dragging them to a Circle Tower or simply running them through with their swords. Keeper Deshanna once told her the Templars could staunch the flow of Mana, leave a mage powerless to defend themselves with wards or fire or lightning. It was why all members of Clan Lavellan, whether they carried the Powers or not learned their way around sword, dagger, and bow.

            Malloran giggled, shaking Enasalin from her dark thoughts of Templars and returning her mind to the present. She found herself smiling as she watched the halla fawn licking her little brother’s face.

            “D’you see this, da’len? The little halla loves me,” he grinned, deep emerald eyes dancing with delight.

            “Aye, I do,” she answered. “Perhaps in time, you will become the clan’s halla master, no?”

            “Like mama?”

            Enasalin simply nodded. Malloran’s grin widened as he scratched the fawn behind the ears. Barely audible footfalls sounded behind them, and Enasalin glanced over her shoulder. Keeper Deshanna beckoned her over, and Enasalin got to her feet. She ruffled Malloran’s sandy blond hair as she walked past.

            “The boy truly has a gift with the halla. Ghilan’nain has blessed him,” the Keeper said quietly. “Come, da’len. We have much to discuss, and there is something I would like you to see.”

            Enasalin cocked an eyebrow, but nodded and followed the older woman. They made their way through the camp and came to a halt near the Keeper’s personal aravel, where Deshanna motioned for Enasalin to sit while she set a kettle on for tea. Enasalin laid her staff on the ground in front of her, folding her hands in her lap. It reminded her of the many lesson-hours spent learning to control her Gifts, and to learn the history and lore of the People. One day, Enasalin would succeed Deshanna as Clan Lavellan’s Keeper, and her lessons even now in her twenty-seventh year seemed unending. Still, she was young even by the shortened standards of the People.

            “Now then,” said Keeper Deshanna, setting a rough-hewn stone mug in Enasalin’s outstretched hand. “You have been progressing well in your studies. You are years ahead of where I was when I was your age.”

            “Thank you, Keeper. I strive to make our People proud,” murmured Enasalin.

            Keeper Deshanna nodded, smiling for a brief moment before retrieving a scroll from her aravel and returning. “Yes, you make our Ancestors very proud, da’len.” She sighed, holding out the scroll. “A shemlen messenger from the caravans we trade goods with brought this to me three days ago. I have taken my time in bringing it to your attention, seeking answers from the Gods.”

            Enasalin’s brow furrowed as she undid the simple twine binding the scroll, unrolling it and skimming its contents. “The Shems plan to bring their mages and Templars together…”

            “Yes. Their…Chantry leader, the Divine they call her, came up with an idea to bring their leaders together. They call it a Conclave,” the Keeper said, taking a sip of her tea. “The outcome of these talks will not affect only humans, Enasalin. Indeed, the fate of many of the People whether Dalish or Alienage hangs in the balance as well.”

            “Will the caravan bring news of the results, next we see them?”

            “I am sure they would, although such news would be severely delayed, da’len.”

            Enasalin handed the scroll back to the Keeper. “Then why do we concern ourselves with this? Why have you brought me to your aravel?”

            Keeper Deshanna sighed, looking down at her tea. Enasalin couldn’t be certain, but she could have sworn she had seen a flicker of sadness in the older woman’s chestnut eyes.

            “I am sending you to this Conclave, da’len. My heart aches to send you away from the People, but your path branches off in directions even I cannot see.” Deshanna sighed, lifting her gaze from her tea and looking Enasalin square in the eye. “This is the path the Creators have chosen for you.”

            Enasalin’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. This…Conclave was being held in the heart of Ferelden. She would have to travel across the Free Marches, pass through Kirkwall, somehow board a ship, and then make it to this Temple of Sacred Ashes in the Frostback Mountains, all while avoiding this Templar and Mage War that had torn apart the countryside and made it difficult for her clan to avoid the fighting. Even Clan Lavellan knew the majority of the Mage Rebellion had taken refuge in Redcliffe Village, while the Templars maintained camps throughout Ferelden, the Free Marches, and Orlais. It was rumored the Templars operated out of Val Royeaux, though as Clan Lavellan did not set even so much as a toe into the lands of Empress Celene, the validity of those reports was yet to be confirmed to the Dalish.

            She couldn’t help but turn her head as her ears twitched and picked up Malloran’s giggle as he played with the other children. Her dark aquamarine eyes scanned the members of the clan as they readied for the evening meal. Already, Enasalin’s heart began to ache with homesickness, although she knew deep in her heart she could not deny the will of the Creators. Barely able to stifle the defeated sigh building in her chest, Enasalin turned to face Keeper Deshanna. Her tongue felt heavy as silverite as she nodded once.

            “I understand, Keeper,” she said, straightening her spine and trying her best to hide her displeasure at the situation. “I shall go to this Conclave, and bring news to the clan upon my return.”

            Keeper Deshanna nodded, and got to her feet. Enasalin stood as well, gathering her staff.

            “We do not always understand the destiny the Creators set forth for us, Enasalin. We can only embrace it and turn our courses to follow our paths as they change, for the Creators know us better than we know ourselves,” said the Keeper quietly. “Come. Let us eat together. We will announce this to the clan together. Sooner than you think, you will be with us once more.”


	2. Chapter 2

     Pain. A splitting headache, starting behind her eyes and snaking tendrils down her arms. Enasalin grunted, brow furrowing as a shiver ran through her. Desperately, she tried to remember what had happened, but the last thing she remembered was setting foot on the ship belonging to the Valo-Kas mercenaries. The Qunari woman…Adaar. Enasalin wondered where she was. Had their ship been attacked? No, that wasn’t right. Enasalin could have sworn she had seen a Fereldan port, with towering Mabari statues, but she couldn’t be sure. Fen’Harel was certainly having a chuckle.

  
     Enasalin groaned, reaching up to rub at her eyes. The clanging of chains stopped her even before the realization her wrists were manacled had a chance to register. Heart beating wildly and head filling with the old stories of Tevinter slavers, Enasalin's eyes snapped open.

  
     She was in a dungeon. Water dripped from stone walls, and as Enasalin began to move she heard the distinct sounds of steel being pulled from scabbards. Keeping her head down, she cast her eyes from side to side, flattening her ears against her head. Six. Six men in strange green and rust colored armor, stinking of stale sweat and fear, and pointing their very shiny swords at her.

  
     A sudden spark of emerald light crackled through the dark room, in tandem with white hot pain shooting up her left arm. Stifling the cry of pain that welled in her throat, Enasalin raised her hands and stared. Her left palm was ablaze with the green light, shining through her fingers as she clenched her fist. She didn’t have time to examine it further, for the heavy wooden door burst open and two women strode in.

  
     The first paced around her. Enasalin noted the harsh angles of the woman’s face, accentuated by cropped black hair and a jagged scar on her cheek. Dark brown eyes regarded her, flashing with open hostility. The second woman hung back, features obscured by a hood. Enasalin set her jaw defiantly, staring at the open doorway.

  
     “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the first woman said, coming to a stop in front of Enasalin. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone is dead. Except for you.”

  
      Memories tried, and failed, to flutter to the surface. Running, a fleeting sense of being chased and a brief flash of a woman's silhouette, but nothing tangible. Nothing real. Anger welled in her chest as she silently pleaded with the Creators to reveal what was lost.

  
     All too aware of several pairs of eyes on her, Enasalin set her jaw and stared forward at the open door.

  
     What happened next was a blur. Enasalin didn’t have time to react before she was hauled to her feet by the front of her shirt, legs buckling as she struggled to keep her balance. It felt like an eternity with the black-haired woman's snarling face entirely too close to her own before the hooded one appeared like a ghost at her side, separating them and pushing the angry one to the other side of the room.

  
     “We need her, Cassandra!”

  
     The two stared each other down for a bit, before the hooded one turned to Enasalin. Steel-blue eyes peered out from the shadows, but they were….kind. Pleading, almost, begging her silently to just cooperate.

  
     There were more questions, and Enasalin answered them to the best of her abilities. Finally, she felt herself hauled to her feet and led to the doors.

  
     “It…is easier to show you,” Cassandra said, motioning to the sky.

  
     Once Enasalin's eyes adjusted to the light, mouth dropping open. A jagged, Fade-green tear glared out from the heavens, spitting out smoking debris. In response, the Mark on her hand crackled and thrummed.

  
     “Creators preserve us,” she muttered, the realization sinking in that she would not be homeward bound any time soon.


	3. Chapter 3

     It was chaos. Demons were pouring from the rifts faster than his men could stop them. He had already lost an entire squad in the mountain pass, and another nearly full squad at the secondary camp. No matter how many they killed, three more seemed to take the place of each destroyed.

    Commander Cullen Rutherford dodged the swinging claws of a minor shade, bile raising in his throat as he raised his shield to block another attack. The creatures were coming too fast, and soon, no matter the effort or training the men had had, they would be overwhelmed.

    “Lieutenant!” he barked, grabbing the younger man by the arm. “We need a battlemage! Someone who knows how to disrupt these damn things' spawning!”

    The Lieutenant opened his mouth to reply, but another wave of demons fell out of the rift. A lesser shade advanced quickly upon them, and as Cullen raised his shield, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The demon burst into flame, screeching terribly and fleeing. The air crackled, and lightning shot down from the heavens and struck the shade down before hopping to another target.

    “Maker…,” breathed the Lieutenant.

    Cullen whirled around as more spells whizzed past his head, each finding their target and dispatching the demons.

    A strange Elven woman twirled her staff, balls of flame and lightning flying from the ornately carved tip. When a demon got too close, she used her staff like a melee weapon, driving the end down into the creature and twisting.

    She was no circle mage – her attacks too primal, her mana wild and so very different than what he had felt in the Circle…in any Circle. She changed effortlessly from fire, to lightning, to a barrier. Most mages he had encountered only focused on one school.

    Seeker Pentaghast was at his side then, blocking a blow meant for him.

    “Commander, if you are done gawking, perhaps you might swing that sword of yours?” she growled between gritted teeth.

    “How many rifts are there?”

    “We must seal it if we are to get past!”

    Cullen froze as he sensed mana well up around him, shuddering.

    “It is a barrier,” snapped an unfamiliar voice. “Unless you would rather rely on just your armor, in which case I can remove it, shem.”

    Dark auburn hair swirled with the biting mountain wind, and he realized she was Dalish. Without another word, the woman spun her staff and called down a barrage of lightning strikes on the nearest demon, the lightning arcing to hit the other two that had just spawned.

    Squaring his shoulders, Cullen rushed into the fray, fighting beside Cassandra. Screams rent the air from the terrors and his men, peppered with Varric shouting profanities. After what seemed like an eternity, the last terror dissolved into green fragments, sucked back into the rift.

    The Dalish woman pushed past an exhausted Cullen, raising her left hand as a beam of magic the same color as the fade rift shot forth from her hand. She fought with it for a moment, before clenching her fist with a grunt. The fade rift sputtered and closed, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

    “Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this,” remarked Solas, standing by the Dalish woman.

    “Let’s hope it works on the big one,” added Varric with a shake of his head.

    Cullen snapped out of his daze, jogging over to the Seeker. “Lady Cassandra! You managed to seal the rift, well done.”

    Cassandra seemed to fight a sneer, jerking her chin over her shoulder. “Do not congratulate me, Commander,” she said, turning to allow the Dalish woman into his view. “This is the prisoner’s doing.”

    Cullen’s face darkened. Of course. They had said the woman who had killed the Divine was an elf, and a mage. He should have been able to put two and two together. He looked at the woman, amber eyes blazing.

    “Is it? I hope they’re right about you, we’ve lost a lot of people getting you here,” he spat.

    The Dalish flicked her aquamarine gaze over his form, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she leaned heavily on her staff. “You’re not the only one hoping that,” she said, winking.

    Cullen sputtered for a moment in disbelief. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” He turned his attention to Cassandra, who was hiding a smirk of her own. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

    “Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

    Cullen motioned to the Lieutenant, who barked orders to move out. He cast the Dalish woman one last glance, frowning at the thinly veiled contempt she regarded him with. “Maker watch over you,” he said, turning on his heel and stopping an injured soldier. Cullen threw the man’s arm over his shoulder, helping him walk back to the camp. He looked behind them at the small, ragtag group. The Dalish woman stuck her staff out and tripped Varric, the pair dissolving into giggles and earning a harsh reprimand from Cassandra.

    “For all our sakes,” he added bitterly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is going to be comprised of long chapters alternating with some shorter ones that serve to set up relationships and tensions(where needed) amidst the main events of the stories. Kind of like little fluffy bits of one-shot goodness and good, long chapters all rolled into one. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it!

      The night air was cool, the breeze whispering across his face as he sat on the dock, looking over the frozen lake. The recruits had long since retired to their tents, and the whole of Haven had a quiet about it that only the late hours of the night could achieve. Cullen closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

     Sleep had been eluding him once more, as usual. The lack of lyrium meant his nightmares were more frequent, more vivid and violent than before. It had become so bad that Cassandra and Leliana had insisted he take one of the vacant cabins, tucked away in a mostly unpopulated corner of Haven. Unfortunately, it also put him as next-door neighbors with the Herald, and he would be lying if he said being that close to a mage was still something he wasn’t quite comfortable with. The Herald of Andraste was quiet enough, although she muttered in her sleep nearly as much as he did. Instead of mages and desire demons, she cried out about spiders, dark shadows, and calling for someone to be released.

     He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The poor girl had enough troubles without being plagued by monsters from her past in her sleep. The thought made him chuckle and wonder how many times Cassandra had said the same thing about him.

     Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, stuttering to a stop. Cullen felt the telltale tingle of mana raise the hair on the back of his neck, and without turning, he knew the Herald stood behind him.

     “I…sorry,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll just be going, then.”

     Cullen cleared his throat. “No need, Herald. You…aren’t disturbing me.”

     Enasalin shifted her feet in the snow, her hesitation palpable. Cullen could only imagine the discomfort she felt, there was no telling what tales were told of Templars and their abilities in the Dalish clans. He was sure they weren’t happy stories, likely more along the lines of bogeyman stories meant to frighten the young mages into listening to the dire warnings of their Keepers.

     “We’ve gotten a lot of recruits,” he said, more speaking to fill the silence than anything. “Locals from Haven, and some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did.”

      Cullen was rewarded with a dry snort from the Herald.

      “At least I got their attention,” she said, coming to stand by him.

      He risked a glance over at her, and immediately wondered why she wasn’t freezing. She was clad only in a muslin tunic and leather pants cropped short, bare feet half buried in the snow. The tunic was several sizes too large, fluttering in the breeze. Enasalin caught him looking at her, and he hurriedly returned his gaze to the lake. Cullen could feel the red creeping into his cheeks, the blush worsening as the Herald let another snicker slip.

     “That, you did,” he admitted. “I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. Seeker Pentaghast approached me, and I left the Templars to join her cause.”

     Enasalin frowned, turning to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”

     Cullen got to his feet, putting his hands on his hips as he thought over his next words.

     “I am not a Templar any longer,” he said. “Nor are most of those here bearing the sigils of the Order. I know it may not seem reassuring, but you are in no danger here. Mages, Templars, pilgrims, we are all the same under the Inquisition’s banners.”

     He turned and headed back to his cabin, leaving her to ponder his words. Enasalin looked over her shoulder, watching him go. Regardless of what he said, she found herself doubting she would ever feel completely comfortable around even ex-Templars. Men and women whose lives had been so full of Chantry indoctrination did not so easily change their ways simply because the Inquisition had been declared. Perhaps Commander Cullen didn’t see it, but she did. The glares passed from a mage to a Templar, whispers and pointed fingers on both sides. As much as these humans and city elves cried equality and unity, the infant Inquisition was far from it.

     Sighing, Enasalin summoned a small ball of flame, juggling it from hand to hand to keep her fingers warm as she waited for sleep to crawl towards her.


	5. Chapter 5

     “You can’t be serious?”

     “I can, and I am,” Cassandra stated simply. “Rogue Templars and mages are making it increasingly dangerous in the Hinterlands for the common folk to live.”

     “Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. Surely if she were to contact us in search of the Herald, she wouldn’t mean her harm.” Leliana’s tone was almost sing-song, blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

     “So I…what, wave my mark around and start yelling for this Mother Gisette?” Enasalin asked, running a hand over her face.

     Cassandra sighed. “Giselle,” she corrected.

     “Couldn’t it be a Chantry trap?” asked Cullen, clearing his throat.

     Josephine laughed, shaking her head. “The situation at the Crossroads is dire, Commander. Perhaps we should ask the Herald if she thinks it a trap.”

     “From what I hear, Mother Giselle is a kind woman, not disposed to subterfuge. I believe she simply wants to help.” Leliana reached over, moving a marker adorned with a raven to a point on the map. “My agents place her here, Herald. I will send forward scouts to clear the area and send word back that travel is safe. Just give me the word.”

     Enasalin leaned over the map, ignoring a twinge of pain in her left hand. It would be a five-day journey by foot, longer if the accompanying soldiers were green and unfamiliar with field work. Aquamarine eyes flashed as she went over each scenario, pulling a more detailed map of the Hinterlands and Crossroads from a basket beside the war table. She flicked her gaze over several possible routes, ignoring the questioning looks from her advisors. After a moment, she spread the map of the Hinterlands out, jabbing a finger down and tracing the planned route.

     “Here. This route will take us the quickest way to the Crossroads, through plenty of open areas. The terrain should be fairly flat, make it difficult for bandits, Templars, mages, whatever to ambush us. A child could walk this and make it to the Crossroads in one piece,” she said, leaning back and putting her hands on her hips.

     “It is settled, then. Cullen, have your men get ready to march. Leliana, send a raven to your scouts. With luck, they will have cleared an area for a forward camp,” Cassandra barked, heading toward the doors. “I will go with you, Herald.”

     Enasalin flicked her gaze up to the Seeker, arching an eyebrow before nodding once. Josephine and Leliana took their leave, and soon it was just Enasalin and Commander Cullen left in the war room. Enasalin was looking at the map of Thedas, running a hand over the Free Marches.

     She missed her Clan. Leliana had sent Elven agents to approach Keeper Deshanna, but there had been no word as of yet. Enasalin knew she was being unrealistic in her expectations, but she had already been away from her people for far too long. Unfortunately, with this unknown force having killed the Divine, and Fade rifts opening and spilling demons into all corners of Ferelden, Enasalin knew she would be away from her Clan for a very, very long time. Perhaps after the Breach had been sealed, the threat would be over, and she could return home. A tear slipped from her eye, and she let it fall.

     A handkerchief invaded her peripheral vision, and she lifted her eyes. Cullen was standing with his arm outstretched, his face a mix of concern and awkwardness. To be honest, Enasalin had forgotten he had remained in the war room with her. For someone so large, he was eerily capable of complete silence.

     “I don’t need your pity,” she snapped, batting the handkerchief away and storming out of the war room.

     Cullen swallowed hard as he watched the heavy doors swing shut behind her. He felt red creeping into his face as he mentally cursed himself. What had he been thinking? She was volatile around humans outside of planning their next move at the war table. Of course she wouldn’t have wanted a gesture of comfort from him. An ex-Templar, offering an apostate a handkerchief to dry her eyes. She probably hadn’t appreciated the acknowledgement of her moment of weakness.

      Sighing, Cullen gathered up the maps Enasalin had taken out, rolling them back up and storing them carefully in their baskets. As he straightened up the rest of the war room, his thoughts wandered. Somehow, along the way of going over the two-hour long conversation, Cullen’s mind wandered to how Enasalin had dragged a hand over her face, drawing attention to the delicate, ash-blue lines of her vallaslin. The color accented her eyes, bringing out the deep blue flecks among the dark green, framed by long, dark lashes and rimmed in kohl. Her facial features were distinctly Elven, though without even a small trace of human as could be found in some city Elves. High cheekbones, wide bridge of the nose blending smoothly with the curve of her brow.

     Realizing where his train of thought was taking him, Cullen shook his head vigorously to clear it, stuffing the rest of the maps that had been pulled out rather haphazardly into baskets, and deciding to leave the markers on the war table. He needed to spar, to train, something. She was the Herald of Andraste, and he would not be having anything that could lead to something that could be considered as an impure thought about her.

     “She hates me, anyway,” he muttered, exiting the war room and heading out of the Chantry in long strides.

 

 

 

 

*********************************************************************

 

 

 

 

     Varric looked up at the Dalish woman who had just rather unceremoniously plopped herself down in the snow next to where he stood and started mumbing into her hands. He cocked an eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement as he turned his attention back to the fire and waited for Enasalin to get whatever Elvhen mumbo-jumbo out of her system and start speaking the common tongue again.

     This had almost become a ritual of sorts between war room meetings. She would go do her Herald of Andraste business, no matter how relunctantly, be gone for one to four hours, and materialize at his side ranting in Elvhen until she had calmed down. Varric had learned to remain silent, stoke the fire, and have a bar of Orlesian chocolate waiting for her when she was done. Enasalin's outbursts had earned her the nickname Embers from him, though until she was halfway through her chocolate bar, even Varric knew better than to call her that.

     "He offered me a handkerchief, Varric. A stupid, Creators-cursed handkerchief." Enasalin's hand darted to the snow beside her, snatching up the chocolate. "Fen'Harel take him and his stupid handkerchief. I didn't want his pity. I don't need it."

     Varric chuckled. "The meeting in the war room was interesting, I take it?"

     Enasalin shot him a dark glare. "Hardly. I have to go to the Hinterlands and speak with some Chantry cleric. Mother something-or-other. You're going with me, I've only just decided. If I must suffer, so must you."

     "Aww, Embers. You do care about me!" He batted the wrapper she threw at him with a laugh. "Nah. It'll be good to get out of this frozen town for a while. You wouldn't know it, but snow and ice really don't go well with short legs. At least it's a shorter drop for me if I do slip and fall on my ass, suppose that's a plus."

     Enasalin rolled her eyes, licking melted chocolate from her fingertips. Varric resisted the urge to offer her a handkerchief.

     "So, we going to be dragging Chuckles along for the ride as well? You know he'd love it. Demons, creepy shit, ruined buildings to go have his creepy little dreams in," he asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

     "The more the merrier," mumbled Enasalin. "Cassandra is coming too."

     "Oh, this is going to be good. You know the Seeker and Chuckles don't get along." Varric grinned impishly at the thought.

     Enasalin shrugged, rolling a snowball around in her hands. Something was still troubling her, and Varric was torn between letting her come forth with it on her own or needling it out of her. A comfortable silence fell, the pair watching the hustle and bustle of the many pilgrims and soldiers crammed into Haven's walls. He knew it had to be difficult for the Dalish woman to be trapped in a city. He would never say it to her, but the trip to the Hinterlands and into open lands would do her a world of good. 

     "So. A handkerchief, huh?" 

     Varric winced as the snowball she had been forming burst on contact with his face. 

     "F -"

     "Yeah, yeah I know. Fen'Harel take blah-dee-blah. But I think his heart was in the right place, Embers. Curly's been through some shit that makes these Fade rifts look like child's play. He's seen the worst both Templars and mages have to offer, and still he tried to comfort you. Just some food for thought."

     Enasalin said nothing, but Varric could tell by the look on her face his words were sinking in, and he smiled.

     


	6. Chapter 6

     Enasalin dropped onto the ground, letting her staff fall beside her. The Templars _and_ mages had both been swarming the Crossroads. Refugees and Inquisition soldiers had been caught in the crossfire. Cassandra had managed to usher most of the civilians to safety, with the help of Solas. Enasalin and Varric had struggled to keep the waves of enemies under control alongside the Inquisition’s soldiers. Enasalin assumed the men they had stationed at the Crossroads were more seasoned recruits, and to her relief they had listened to her orders. Even Varric had arched an eyebrow at their willingness to listen to an Elf.

     Still, there had been plenty left to fight when Solas and Cassandra rejoined the fray, and Enasalin had been grateful for the Seeker’s sword and shield preventing her from needing to simultaneously fire spells and fight within melee range. When all was said and done, the Templars and apostate mages dead, Enasalin had fallen to the ground in exhaustion. With the exception of the fighting to get to the Breach, she had not needed to attack in a sustained manner before. Her clan had never battled with more than bandits, who were easily dealt with quickly.

     Before she could catch her breath, however, Cassandra was at her side, gripping her elbow and pulling her to her feet. Solas pressed her staff into her hands with a curious look, and Enasalin strapped her staff to her back with a groan.

     “Mother Giselle is waiting for you,” the Seeker said, jerking her head in the direction of an outcropping of small houses.

     A woman in a garish red and white robe, with a ridiculously tall hat, stood at the edge of a short stone wall. She was watching them, and even smiled a little as Enasalin heaved a great sigh and rolled her shoulders.

    “Great, yeah?” she muttered. “Let’s go see what the Chantry lady wants.”

 

 

 

 

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     That evening, after they had spoken to Corporal Vale, sealed two rifts and found a suitable place to camp, Enasalin sat at the edge of the camp. Behind her, she could hear Cassandra and Varric arguing about Kirkwall and the telltale scrape of stone on stone that meant Solas was mixing his potions up. They all seemed so content with their roles, and why wouldn’t they? No one was asking impossible feats of them, tying them to some holy figure that they had never and would never follow.

    The mark flared up, shooting a now-familiar twinge of pain up her arm. Enasalin shook her hand absentmindedly, turning her hand palm-side up. The sickly green of the mark shone through her cotton gloves, and Enasalin pulled her mana around it, attempting to twine tendrils of her own magic around that of the mark. It sputtered, and she was not prepared to feel such resistance, but she furrowed her brow in concentration. She had nearly managed her experimental task when Solas sat next to her, breaking her concentration. The mark flared brightly once more before going quiet, and Enasalin dropped her hand in her lap.

     “Your power is impressive,” Solas remarked quietly.

     Enasalin snorted. “Hardly. I can only reign this… _thing_ in when I flail it at a Rift. Much as I would like to be able to get these little flares under control. They are distracting, and hurt.”

     Solas held out a bottle of potion that emitted a soft golden glow. Enasalin eyed him suspiciously before reaching over and taking the tiny phial. It was warm in her hand, and seemed to shimmer.

     “This should help contain the flare-ups. It won’t prevent them, but take a few drops under your tongue after a particularly bad one and it should dampen the flow of power from the mark for an hour. Long enough to recover. It will also help the flares be less painful, with continued use. This one,” he said, presenting another, much larger glass flask containing a potion that swirled with green and amber, “if taken once in the morning and once at night, never more than a swallow, will serve as a preventative to the mark spreading. It is…similar to the ones I administered while you were asleep after your fall out of the Fade.”

     Enasalin blinked, looking at the potions in her hands before raising her eyes to look at Solas. “I…thank you. Probably the nicest thing anyone has done for me since I got stuck in this situation.” She set the potions to the side, leaning back and looking up at the stars.

     “Not many would have stayed and listened to my tales of the Fade, nor would they have been able to look at the differences of how the Chantry looks at spirits and the truth of the manner of those spirits. I am simply repaying a kindness.”

     “I don’t know why anyone _wouldn’t_ listen to those stories. The history you have seen, _felt_ …it’s incredible. These Chantry people speak of things that have shaped them. Why wouldn’t they want their mages to know how to go to these places, to dream and experience these things in a way?” Enasalin sighed. “If the Dalish were able to do what you do, just think of the things we could learn from our own history. Whether we have been right, or wrong, or anything in between this whole time. Instead of thinking we feel the pain of our ancestors, we could _actually_ feel it. Maybe then, as a people, we would truly return to honoring the Old Ways instead of scrambling over bragging rights to who’s the better shot.”

     Solas chuckled softly. “I have said it before, and I shall say it again. You are different than the other Dalish I have met on my travels.”

    “Trust me, I’m different than even half my clan. Strange, crackling green mark not counted in that, of course.” Enasalin picked up a smooth stone, turning it over in her hands. “When I was little, I just _knew_ the Creators had chosen me for the gift of magic. I didn’t want to learn to shoot a bow, wanted nothing to do with blades or learning to tend the halla. I was so sure that I was going to have the gift that I annoyed Keeper Deshanna into telling me bits of our history and teaching me about the schools of magic.”

     “How old were you when your magic manifested?” Solas asked, genuinely curious.

     “Five summers. I remember my _mamae_ and my _papae_ , they were so surprised. In our particular family line, there had never been magic. Hunters, halla-keepers and great warriors, yes. When I was selected as Deshanna’s First, they were proud. Of course, there was always the worry that the Templars would happen upon our clan, and I would be taken or killed, but that is the danger that every free mage faces, no?”

    “It was not that way when I was young. Magic was as natural as breathing.”

    Solas had barely spoken above a whisper. Enasalin looked at him quizzically. He couldn’t have been more than forty summers old. As she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, Solas got to his feet.

     “Remember, twice daily, and then three drops under the tongue for flare-ups. It is late, we should rest. We go to Master Dennet tomorrow.”

      Enasalin watched him go, then gathered up her potions and headed for the tent she shared with Cassandra.


End file.
